The Prince of Tamriel
by Lucifer S
Summary: I have little notion of what this story is to be about. This begins as an experiment, and I hope it becomes something more than that. Please enjoy. T for now.


_**Here's the very first chapter of my newest fic. It's an experiment, so I hope you enjoy it. **_

**Oblivion: Chapter One: The Imperial Prison**

The Imperial Prison. Day three-hundred and sixty four in this stone box. I mark the date on the wall with a piece of charcoal. Tomorrow I will have been here one year. I wipe my hands on

the torn smock.

Happy Birthday to me.

I stand on my cot, grasping the bars of the window. I press my face up to them and breathe in. I am thankful for this window to the outside world. At least I have this minor comfort.

All that's here is a rotting table and chair, a candle burnt down to a nub, and a cot not even fit for the maggots that live in it.

I suppose it could be worse.

After awhile, I began to miss the little pleasures I'd once taken for granted.

The wind on my face, the sun at my back, the smell of a new dawn...

Everything leaves with your freedom, and all you have left are your memories. Your past, however twisted or unfortunate it may have been, and the realization that your future would be

an empty hole as dark and as black as the heart beating in your chest. The only thing at the bottom is a quick drop and a sudden stop.

No one escapes from Imperial Prison. Not alive.

I am nearly alone. I have no visitors, except the rats. They crawl through the bars, the holes and cracks to nibble on my flesh while I sleep. By the hundreds they come, beady eyes

glittering from the shadows.

Crawling, skittering- diseased.

At first, it bothered me. I found no rest while they lurked in darkness, waiting for me to sleep. Now, they are merely aquaintances. They know I am weak. They wait, like vultures, for me to

die. It will not be much of a feast when I do. There is not much meat on my bones. Any that I had has faded away from malnourishment and days upon days spent with nothing to do but

exercise. I wonder how many times I've pulled my chin over that bar. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.

No, I'm afraid the rats would be disappointed if they were waiting on me. At least they leave me alone now.

I sit back down on my cot and close my eyes. At least it's quiet. Maybe that Dunmer will leave me alone today. I wish they'd take him away already so I can be alone.

About a week ago they left a dark elf merchant in the cell across from me. He told me he had stolen a necklace from one of his clients and had been sent to the dungeons. My lack of

response had angered him, and now his objective seems to be trying to elicit a response from me. As much as he tries, no matter what he does he won't. I took a vow of silence the day

they brought me to this place. It will not lift until I stand at the Hangman's noose and speak my final words. I won't have to wait long. I figure now it's just a matter of waiting for the

guards to come.

Waiting.

It seems funny. I once heard stories about men who went mad in the dungeons. Whether it was from the isolation, or maybe the idea of waiting for a slowly approaching, but inevitable

death, they were consumed in utter delusion. Maybe it's because I've only been here a year, or maybe I'm already mad. I've never found myself unnerved by the silence, bothered by

isolation. I enjoy solitude. It gives me time to think, and believe me, I've had a long time to do just that. I thought about my past, wondered about the present, and waited for the

inevitable future. A lot can change in a year. Half of Tamriel could be completely ruined, wars could be raging between provinces- both of which are highly unlikely. The prison guards may

be irresponsible buffoons, but after they've had a little wine in them, their tongues are loose, and I find they are very resourceful. I usually wait until dusk, after the guards have begun

their nightly consumption of skooma and cheap wine, then I ask questions. The guards are delicate and suspicious, even in an inebriated state, and have to be handled carefully. I have

learned not to ask too many questions, but to take care to learn everything I can about Tamriel's situation. There have recently been rumours of Uriel Septim's missing sons. It seems the

heirs are getting picked off, one by one. I wonder if it's the Dark Brotherhood? No. My brothers do not kill mindlessly. As far as I know they have no vendetta against any in the monarchy.

All that will come from this is chaos. The guards let slip last night that the last of Uriel's sons disappeared. That means Uriel is the next in line, as well as the last.

What is an Empire without an Emperor?

I wake from my thoughts, hearing the familiar scrape of a plate on concrete. The Slop Drudge has come to give me my meal. A sour old goat he is, pale and clammy as I am from lack of air

and sun. His eyes are small and watery, his face as oily as a sausage off the pan. I take the plate quickly before he decides to spill it. He has a rotten temper, and he often tips the plate

so I have to lap the contents of the floor. He bares his stumpy brown teeth and mutters something about how despicable I am, eating off the ground like some animal. Maybe he does this

to console himself for his own horrid demeanor. I look down at the plate. Grey and tasteless, lumps floating in some sort of oily broth. Before my arrest, I would have thrown this slop at

the feet of the jailor. I swore to myself I would never go back to slum food after Barj took me in. We ate like kings every night, and drank into the early hours of dawn. In the slums, we

were kings. Saviours of those less fortunate. We were honored and worshiped. Royalty.

I give a gentle sigh and tip it back without a moment's hesitation. Depending on the Slop Drudge's mood, this may be my only meal for the week.

I push the empty bowl through the bars and curl up on my cot.

I dream.


End file.
